Where I grew up, there was a popular bumper sticker that encouraged us to “Choose Civility.” Always it made me laugh: Really? Is civility the best we can do?

I don’t know what I expected the last time I wrote to you and hit publish with a lump in my throat. I figured I would hit a nerve; I knew I would ruffle feathers. And no, that’s not why I did it. But yes, I knew I had to do it anyway. But I didn’t expect to be stopped in Target by a friend whose sharing of my post caused confrontations in her actual life. I wasn’t prepared for the messages from people who worried their comments online had offended me, or those defending me against other people’s comments, or those worried that the disagreement that compelled me to write the piece had cost me a real-life friendship.

I’ll save you the suspense on that one: It hasn’t. But since then, I’ve been scratching my head, wondering, what can we learn here?

For one thing, I fear we have all but forgotten how to disagree with grace. This is me, raising my hand. Me too. Because here’s something I know to be true about politics: About many things that matter, we all see the same problems; we just disagree about the possible causes and solutions. It can be hard when people don’t think like you do. I know it is for me. It is especially frustrating when I really like the person in question, which leads me to Elizabeth.

She is brilliant and kind, sensitive and genuine. She’s the kind of girl about whom my dad quotes While You Were Sleeping and says, “You don’t know whether to hug her or arm wrestle her.” In my experience, you don’t have to wonder what she’s thinking. Maybe she isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. And maybe that’s why she reminds me of me. But the older I get, the deeper my appreciation for real people who tell it to me straight. But honesty isn’t the same as being a jerk. And the difference is what I fear we’ve lost (and what Elizabeth hasn't).

Elizabeth and me, in real life

Elizabeth is also a thinker, and she lands on a different spot on the political spectrum than I do. One day she said something that rubbed me the wrong way; I felt she had been flippant about something I took very seriously, or maybe it was just the context surrounding what she said. I don’t make it a point of debating on Facebook. I don’t make it a point of debating at all. But I had seen so many women I liked espousing what felt like a thoughtless opinion, loudly, apparently without regard for the damage it caused, and I was surprised to see this friend seemingly doing the same. Maybe it hurt my feelings.

I should have confronted her privately, given her a chance to explain without an audience. But I guess because of the public nature of Facebook, I broke my own rule and disagreed with her publicly. Almost immediately, friends of hers had my back, the way people do in fights that aren’t theirs, in which she who speaks last wins. I didn’t need or even want their help, but I’m ashamed to admit it made me feel validated and that I didn't even consider how it made Elizabeth feel. She responded almost immediately, not defensively, but in defense. We went around a few times, leaving it as I figured we would: we agreed to disagree.

The next day, Elizabeth reached out privately: “I feel like maybe there’s something I need to repair,” she said. “Those other women always disagree with me, but this was the first time you did.” I assured her that nothing needed to be fixed. She asked me to lunch, but I couldn’t make it because I’d be at yoga. She decided to come too, even though she was late and risked the judgment of our snarky instructor. I don’t think she wanted to do yoga; I think she wanted look me in the eye. She understood something I was trying to avoid: conflict has trouble surviving presence. I think that’s why people are always braver (and less considerate) when commenting online than in person.

So, after class we talked awkwardly for a few minutes, and finally I said, “We’re good, okay? There’s nothing broken here.” She smiled. And though maybe things still felt tender, we knew it was true.

Our disagreement compelled me to compile my thoughts in a piece I shared with her, reopening our dialogue. She asked me careful questions about what I hoped would come from sharing something so personal. We talked more; I learned more about her heart.

And then I shared the piece it’s taken me two weeks to get over. The last one I’d ever want to be known for; the one thousands of people read. The next morning, Elizabeth shared it too. And it wasn’t because something I had said caused her to rethink everything; her opinion hadn’t changed. But maybe because of our discussion, she reconsidered the potential impact of her words, the timing in which she had chosen to share them, or the tone. And here's what makes her response truly remarkable to me: the impact to people she cared about mattered more to her than proclaiming her opinion in that moment. She wanted us to agree. So did I. And though we came closer to understanding each other, we continue to disagree. But I admired the way she pressed in, gently, asking questions and paying attention to the answers. It is teaching me something.

Unsurprisingly, I attracted a few loud dissenters. Strangers showed up on my Facebook page, appearing to miss the point entirely. They saw my post as a pro-Hillary piece, an anti-Donald piece, another woman crying victim—everything I expressly said that it wasn’t. I wanted to write them off, rudely, the way they had done to me. But I knew I’d lose my message if I did that. Or my witness, at least. So, I carefully crafted direct but benign responses, even though that’s not what I wanted to do. Friends came to my defense, and I found myself calling them off. Because I wrote that piece for two reasons: to speak up for those who couldn’t, and because maybe someone might read it and reconsider the effect of their words on the women around them. I can’t get people to reconsider if they already agree with me or won’t stick around long enough to read or clarify.

Admittedly, I engaged in debate with other women that were never going to consider my point. I saw them talking about me like I would never see it. They are educated mothers, apparent good people, but they were skewering me—a stranger— on a friend’s Facebook page. My fingers hovered over the keys while I considered whether to respond, and here’s why I decided to do it: I needed them to acknowledge what they were doing. I needed them to remember I wasn’t some abstract idea; I was a thinking, feeling, actual person, not an anonymous avatar who stirred the pot for fun. Unfortunately, being reminded of my humanity did nothing for these women. I disengaged, thanked God I don’t have to encounter them in real life, and moved on .

When it all started to die down, I arrived, weary, at my MOPS meeting, to a hug and sympathetic ear from Elizabeth, my real friend, who cares about my actual feelings despite not agreeing with all of my thoughts.

And here’s what I learned:

The Unfollow button is our friend, but we must be careful not to surround ourselves with people with whom we always agree. Disagreement, with people who love us, can be a healthy part of understanding each other, our beliefs and even ourselves. That said, debating with people who are completely unwilling to listen or consider another viewpoint is a waste of time. Let us not waste our breath on those arguments or be those people.

If you’re a jerk online, you’re probably a jerk in real life. Behind every Facebook page or blog post is an actual person who took more time to craft their piece than you’re taking to dismantle it in the comments. All opinions don’t need to be shared. The Golden Rule applies here, as always.

We can debate on Facebook if we must, but it’s always a poor substitute for meaningful, open dialogue within the confines of real friendships in living rooms and on front porches, over a meal or a drink or anywhere we can look each other in the eye.

We must resist the urge to distill whole people down to one statement or belief. This is so hard, isn’t it? It would be so much easier to classify people as worth our time or not, and bumper stickers, lawn signs and Facebook rants all seem to be helpful tools to get us there. But, as a Christian, I’m called to live in this tension. It’s not just part of the job; it is the job. I’m called to share the love of God with the people around me. All of the people. Not only the ones I like or agree with. I didn’t enjoy being reduced to my most controversial and raw blog post. It’s safe to say most people wouldn't.

​When I walked away from the keyboard that day, I made my family dinner and tucked my kids into bed and kissed my husband. Right now, I’ll walk away to wake up my daughters, make breakfast and lunch and walk to the bus stop and then go on having conversations and making mistakes in my actual life, just like you will. Because the whole of my person and value could never be summed up in a post. No one’s can. We would do well to remember that. Choosing civility is truly the least we can do.

I watched the video, you know the one, and felt outraged, though not at all surprised. I always knew Donald Trump was an insecure sexist just the same way you do. He keeps showing us that. So, it wasn’t those words that undid me, wasn’t those words that made me relive my scariest, most degrading moments. I wasn’t sure why I felt hit so hard.

But then a friend posted what should have been an innocuous meme on Facebook—because what was one more?—and I finally broke. I unleashed my frustration in the form of disagreement that hijacked her post. I chose my words carefully. I was respectful. And I apologized for the way I went about it, but I couldn’t apologize for my words. Here’s what I really meant.

I’m angry about the silent men and the deflecting women. I’m utterly baffled that a self-respecting, well-educated, God-fearing man or woman could meet news of those reprehensible words—themselves an admission of repeated, habitual sexual assault—with, “Yeah, but:”

“Yeah, but Clinton isn’t any better…”

“Yeah, but look at what Hillary did when Bill got caught…”

“Yeah, but they’re just words…”

And two that bothered me the most:

“Yeah, but are we actually sure he ever assaulted anyone? Was there ever any proof?”

And, “Yeah, but how come these same women who are upset about this thought nothing of reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

So, finally, in my own space, with all the courage I can muster, I say, “YEAH, BUT NOTHING.”

Friends, how can this be something we disagree about? What is there to debate? What he said and the actions they betray are abhorrent. Full stop.

You want to talk about Hillary or Bill? Let’s do that. You want to talk about porn or terrible fiction? Let’s do that. But let’s not intentionally muddy the waters or detract from something that is an abomination all on its own. The consequences are too dire. Let’s not brush off an admission of guilt and demand proof of something that is always done by cowards, almost always in secret and darkness, that takes more bravery than you can imagine to bring into the light.

And by now you've guessed that this is personal, but shouldn’t my words carry more weight because of that?

Here is where I take a deep breath and ask you to bear with me. Here is where I tell you that when I was seventeen, I was repeatedly harassed at an internship, but at first it was just words. Then one day, he grabbed me by the arm on the stairs and wouldn’t let me go. Another day soon after, he slammed me up against a wall, pinning my hands and pressing against my hips so hard that it hurt. His face so close to mine that I could feel his breath, he threatened to come to my house if I told.

I wrestled and lost sleep, but eventually I told. My parents and sponsor were enraged, but still, in front of a committee of men and women, I had to relive it all in humiliating detail. And then do you know what they asked me?

“Well, did you ask him to stop?”

Even after they admitted that I wasn’t the first to file a complaint, they explained that this was probably just a cultural misunderstanding, since he was an immigrant from the Caribbean. They moved me to a different assignment. As if I were the problem. They assured me he would be fired. "You're not going to press charges, are you?" they said. And somehow I knew, even at seventeen, there would have been no point.

When I was twenty-one, a man I barely knew entered my room while I was sleeping. No, I didn’t ask him to. No, I didn’t invite him into my bed. Yes, of course, I told him to stop. Thank God he finally did. And I carried the shame of that one for most of my adult life, as if it were mine to carry; as if I were the one who had forcefully tried to take what didn’t belong to me.

When I was twenty-five, after attending a mandatory “sensitivity training” about sexual harassment in the workplace in which a white-haired man said, “This is a waste of time. This isn't even a problem anymore," a man at work leered at me from over the top of my cubicle every day for three months. He commented on my appearance crudely, daily, and asked me out repeatedly, though he knew I was married. He told me it was a shame I hadn’t had the chance to “experience him” before I got married. I was the only woman in the department, let alone the office. I hesitated to say anything, knowing it was my word against his, that I had no proof, and that, likely, I’d have to continue to see him every day and even be alone with him regardless of whether I spoke up. Finally, hesitantly, I told the management.

Again, they needed direct quotes, vivid, humiliating details. They interrogated me. They informed me there was nothing they could do “until something happens.” Until something happens, they said.

“Well, did you ask him to stop?” they asked before moving me—not him—to a different office. Mysteriously, a month or two later, my position was no longer needed and I was let go. As if I were the problem. He wasn’t fired until years later, and even then it wasn’t because of the dozens of women who had reported him for sexual harassment; it was because he had lied on his resume.

This is to speak nothing of the other men who found their ways into my room when I was sleeping, though thankfully I was able to yell them out of there. This is to speak nothing of the hands that found their way onto my butt or breasts while in a crowd.

Maybe you’ve never been sexually assaulted. I sincerely hope that you haven't. Maybe you don’t think you know anyone who has. Do you know what they look like? They look like me, the college-educated, thirty-five-year-old, married mother of three sitting beside you at the stoplight in my minivan or in the next row over in church, walking past you in the grocery store, or bringing you a meal when your wife has a baby. They look like so many of my friends and loved ones, some of whom have had experiences far more horrific than mine, but whose blood doesn’t belong spilled on my page. We are your neighbors, your girlfriends, your sisters, your wives, your daughters. And we are far more than the sum of our experiences.

The words that threw me into a tailspin this week weren’t those of that egomaniac; they were the words of my friends—good, kind, smart people—who don’t seem to understand the weight of those words. When I was a victim, good, kind, smart people asked me loaded questions that suggested I might have been in the wrong, must have been mistaken, must have been exaggerating. They didn’t trust me. They placated me. They silenced me. They changed my response in the future.

If we diminish admissions of sexual assault, if our first instinct is to suspect victims, if we question their role in their own abuse, if we silence their claims, if we ignore them, what will happen next time? What are we teaching our daughters? Our sons?

From my experience, I have learned that no legislation can insulate a woman from retribution when she reports sexual harassment. It’s in the looks and hushed tones, it’s in the tense atmosphere, it’s in the side eyes and insinuations that "some women are too uptight." In our current culture, there is always retribution.

Photo credit: Pomax (click for source)

So, when you casually dismiss Trump’s gloating over habitual sexual assault as “locker room banter,” it may be unwitting, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you detract from the horrific nature of not only his words but what it means he has done by changing the subject to someone else's wrongdoing, you may not even realize it, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you try to compare Trump’s words—about repeatedly touching women without their consent—to a fictional series about a woman involved in BDSM with her consent, you are complicit in the problem. My sexual assaults and harassment had one thing in common: I did not give my consent. I can and did choose not to read Fifty Shades of Grey. I did not have that choice when it came to assault.No one does.

And when someone seeking our country’s highest office can get away with these words, when you give him a pass, though you might never dream of doing so, you are telling me, my daughters and yours that our experience doesn’t matter, that our safety doesn’t matter, that our very humanity doesn’t matter.

I know that’s not what you said. You would never say that; of course you wouldn't. But for me and so many millions of other women who have suffered abuse, that’s what we heard.

Good men and women, for the love of God, please be willing to listen to others whose experiences don’t look like yours; please trust them when they tell you what it was like, even if it is hard for you to hear. I promise you, it’s harder for them to say. Please be willing to consider that your words may not be communicating the way you think they are.

I’m walking away from this week feeling bruised. For every prominent Christian leader or conservative who spoke boldly, there seemed to be many more people I actually know who made excuses or encouraged distractions. I’m choosing to unfollow people I like, for the sake of my heart. I’m choosing to post this, the bravest thing I’ve ever written, instead of participating in debates on Facebook. I’m choosing to remind my children—and especially my daughters—at every opportunity that they are the only bosses of their bodies and they alone can determine how and when and by whom they are touched. I am reminding them it is never, ever rude to tell someone to stop. And I am shifting my focus away from “no means no” and teaching my children—and especially my son—to respect the bodies and wishes of others and to look and ask for consent.

It wasn't my intention to make you feel bad, to call you out or to make you angry. I really don't care who you're voting for. I know your opinion of me may change after reading this. Though my husband holds my hand as I launch this into the world, admittedly, I am risking the humiliation of having my father, grandfather, brothers, uncles and friends read this. I am risking having former and potential future employers read this. I’m laying a lot on the line.

But I know who I am: I am loved, treasured, supported and whole. Any potential risk is worth it to me, because I know there are other women unable to share their stories, women who desperately need you to understand that words matter: his, mine and yours.

Predawn this morning, somehow I knew. Even though I had never marked the date down, I opened my eyes and knew that today marked a year since your passing.

Later, without prompting, a text from your husband confirmed the same.

A whole year. And so much has changed.

Most importantly, you’re getting another grandson any day. You would have been over the moon; I know you would have cherished him exactly the way you always did his big brother.

Your devoted husband—what can I say? Surely you knew about his quiet strength. But did you expect him to fulfill those last wishes you said on a whim? Did you think he would brave that lonely journey to Hawaii to lay you to rest? Probably you knew he would have done anything for you. But did you think he would be able to find so much beauty there, tangled amidst all the memories and pain?

Did you expect him to carry on, following the same path you had always planned, but alone? I wish you could have seen him fixing up the house to sell, the way he cared so deeply about the people who would buy it, how he proudly showed them every detail, like how you carved your initials on the bottom of the first bath tub that was finally yours. I wish you could have seen the way your loss brought him closer to your children. How the neighborhood and family gathered around him before he left, to hug him and send him off with love.

You would be so proud of the way he has taken care of himself this year. Oh, I thought of you often as I fussed over him, making sure he had more to eat than just salad or microwaved burritos. As the weeks went by, he not only accepted help, but he even asked for it when he needed it. He did not allow himself too much time for retreat, but sought community and friendship and support. He began attending church and serving the people there faithfully.

​But please don’t think he just moved on, no way. He has mourned for you; he has grieved you beautifully. Of course it wouldn’t surprise you to know he hasn't shied away from his tears. He hasn't let the fear of them hold him back from sharing memories of you, from wondering aloud about his future, from expressing how much he misses you. I’m sure you knew this deep in your bones, but you were his beloved. His sun rose and set with you, so naturally his world has been darker for your departure. But he has used this great loss to propel him to love, to kindness, to generosity and even to joy. I cried the day I first saw him taking a bike ride. He has taken his time relearning how to live his life, how to do things he enjoyed again despite his steady heartache, but he is learning again.​Our kids still miss you. You were the first person they loved and lost. You’ve made them wonder about God and Heaven, and they talk about it—and you. They remember how kind you were to them; I remember how your face always lit up when you saw them. I will never forget the gift you gave me in the middle of a particularly hectic afternoon: a dish towel with the words “Pardon the mess, the children are making memories.” You were always quick to remind slow down and see the beauty of this stage of life, and your husband now does the same.

The people on the other side of the fence—the ones who bought the home you made—are delightful. You would love them. She is smart and strong, he is funny and kind; they are lovely and generous and already endearing themselves to the neighborhood. They work hard to maintain your beds and rose bushes; I think it would make you happy. They have children nearly the same age as ours, who duck through the back gate you helped build, without having any idea the bittersweet joy it brings Daniel and me. There are Halloween decorations in your yard again; there is love and laughter in the house you poured yourself into; your friends in the neighborhood mention you often, and there is more tenderness here among us than there was before you left. And I don’t believe any of it is a coincidence.

So, a year after your passing, we prepare to spend time with your husband, whom we haven’t seen since he drove across the country four months ago. He comes to welcome your new grandchild. Of course his presence, though appreciated, could never make up for your absence. It is still felt deeply. I’m sure it will always be. I think of you as I put fresh flowers in your blue and white vases that now sit on my mantel.

​The love of your life will join us around our kitchen table and in our living room; he will stay in our guest room that overlooks the yard and garden that used to be yours. Though you’ve been gone a year now, you have never left the minds and hearts of those you touched while you were here. Know that you are loved and sorely missed; know that your people are carrying on bravely and beautifully; know that we are profoundly grateful for having known you and for the gifts you left behind. ​

I’m supposed to be camping with my family right now, in a little cabin on a sweet campground on the Eastern Shore that is already decked out for Halloween. But my littlest spiked a fever a couple nights ago and laid on the couch listlessly all day yesterday. We considered canceling the trip, but our girls had been looking forward to it, and we knew we couldn’t realistically reschedule it this month.

Hesitantly, expecting him to say no, I said, “Maybe you and the girls could still go.”

To my surprise, Daniel replied, “Yeah, I had considered that.”

So, I spent the day tending to Deacon and packing the rest of our family to leave once the girls returned from school. They hugged and kissed Deacon and me and chattered their way excitedly into the car. Last night, Daniel sent me pictures while I snuggled my fussy toddler and soothed him to sleep.

Lately I’ve been thinking about faithfulness. When I was younger, when we first got married and even before that, I had thought being faithful meant not cheating. Of course that’s part of it. But lately I’m struck by how much of being faithful is just planting your feet and staying put.

Last week, while I watched her in the mirror, my hairstylist told me how her ongoing renovation was coming along.

“It’s been stressful,” she admitted, and told me she and her husband had been fighting. I smiled at her and listened as the conversation reframed to marriage in general.

“Honestly,” I said, “for at least the first five years, I would panic during the down times. I’d think something was wrong with us, that we might not make it. Eventually I started to consider that maybe this is just the nature of things. You can’t live with someone for the better part of your life and not have those times. I knew to expect challenges, but no one ever told me about the boredom or the irritation, about the persistence needed to maintain a marriage.”

She stopped cutting and stared at me in the mirror.

“I’ve been married for five years,” she said, “no one ever told me that either.”

“I just don’t like my husband sometimes,” I confessed. “Sometimes, the ways in which he’s so different from me just seem to block out all the things I love. But I’m learning I can’t trust those feelings. And in those times, I need to make sure I’m investing my energy back into our marriage and not outside of it, and that I just stick it out. Because for all those times, there are also the ones where I lie beside him at night and think I couldn’t possibly love anyone more. There’s truth to both the highs and the lows. One couldn’t exist without the other. So, I enjoy those high times and soak them in without letting myself believe they are meant to stay. I remind myself of them in the lows. And we just keep coming back.”

She waved her scissors as she talked, “I can’t tell you how much better you’re making me feel right now,” she said. “I thought something was wrong with us, that maybe we were going to get a divorce. But what you’re saying makes sense.”

These last couple weeks we’ve seen a lot of progress in one of our children, who has started therapy. But then we hit a few-day snag where things got harder and seemed to regress. Our girls have been emotional, one in tears, the other screaming, and I heard Daniel say to them, “You can’t trust your feelings right now.” I wondered if it seemed odd to them, given how much time we spend talking about recognizing, naming and talking about feelings, but I have to believe that’s true.

In the thick of my daughter’s rage, when she is swinging and spewing venom, my feelings are a liar.

When my other daughter is overtired and in need of attention, when she cries with a turn of the wind, my feelings are a liar.

When my son defiantly, deliberately scrapes his metal fork across my heirloom kitchen table, the one my grandfather gave me, my feelings are a liar.

And when my husband, overworked, stressed, losing sleep and seemingly never home long enough, chooses to relax in the home I have made instead of helping me with that moment’s task, my feelings are a liar.

Never have I known the truth of this more clearly than in this season. I find myself poured out, so many times over, throughout every day. Always thinking ahead of what everyone else will need, making lunches and coffee at night for the morning, muffins when I wake up, dinner in the middle of the day. Filling my blocks of time with tasks to fill drawers and cabinets, not to mention cleaning them, fill backpacks and lunchboxes, shape minds and fill hearts. And if I’m not careful, those feelings creep in like they did this week: There’s nothing that’s yours. No one even appreciates what you’re doing. You are no more than the sum of what you are able to do for others.

These thoughts are always a sign that something needs to adjust. This week hasn’t gone the way I intended. This day isn’t going the way I intended. I thought Deacon would wake up well and we’d head to the campground to surprise our family. And instead, Deacon and I found ourselves still in our jammies at 10:30, watching Sesame Street while he whined. He’s not well enough to go anywhere. And so we stay put.

And, while I’m grateful to finally be in a stage of life where I have the flexibility to pivot when someone dear to me is in need, sometimes the lack of control over my own days wears on me.

So, earlier this week when Daniel said, “What do you mean you’re fine? Just fine?” and I heard those words creep out, I knew I needed to adjust.

I watched him load the van yesterday, a weary smile on his face, disappointed and overwhelmed but acutely aware that this trip with his girls is an opportunity. I was so proud of him. He was being faithful.

Sometimes being faithful to my husband means sticking close to his side when I’d rather not. Kissing him when he walks in the door, when I don’t feel like it, going through the motions of loving him well until my heart catches up.

Sometimes being a good mother to my children looks much the same: using a measured tone and careful words when I’d rather yell, taking care to be gentle with their hearts and lavish attention on them when I’d rather hide in my room alone. It means missing the fun and memories of a family trip to snuggle a cranky, feverish boy back to health.

And being faithful to myself isn’t far off. Thursday I dragged myself to a yoga class, even though I would rather have used my time more productively. I changed out of my yoga gear and into real clothes before running errands, because I knew it would help me feel better. I put a cap on the amount of time I would spend doing housework during Deacon’s nap, even though it meant it all wouldn’t get done, knowing I’d be a more cheerful mother to his sisters and him if I did something for myself instead.

In the inevitable ebbs that come with marriage, parenting and life, I will choose to believe what I know over how I feel. I will choose to honor my commitments.

I will choose joy even when it feels far off. I will choose gratitude even when it is shrouded. I will choose faithfulness even when I don’t want to. I will remember that, of course, faithfulness is its own reward. Finding myself in love with my husband again and again, feeling my son’s head get heavy as he relaxes into sleep on my chest, watching my daughters’ eyes flicker as I settle in, fully present to hear about their days; none of this can happen if I’m not faithful, and all of these are pleasing to God, a blessing to others and healing to my soul in a way that hiding away or running could never be.

Let’s choose to keep showing up for the lives we have right now, for our people and for ourselves, even when we don’t feel like it—maybe especially when we don’t feel like it. Let’s be honest with the people around us about how hard that can be, because our courage to say that out loud helps us carry on and can make them brave too. Let’s plant our feet until the next wave comes.

​I saw it twice in a week, a quote allegedly by the late Mexican artist, Frida Kahlo, that I could have written:

"I used to think I was the strangest person in the worldbut then I thought, there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I doI would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too.well, I hope that if you are out there you read this and know that yes, it’s true I’m here,and I’m just as strange as you."

​First of all, though widely attributed to Kahlo, it appears there is no proof she ever actually said it. There doesn’t even to seem to be a plausible suggestion that it was her. So why does everyone think she said it?

​With a little digging, I learned that In 2008, a Canadian writer and artist named Rebecca Katherine Martin, just 15 at the time, mailed a postcard to the wildly popular blog PostSecret, a site that anonymously posts reader-submitted “secrets.” The idea is that, by posting the secret, it loses some of its power and the poster becomes somehow less alone. The postcard she created featured a partial picture of Kahlo, which seems to be the only reference to her.

Maybe there’s something to our desire to believe that a famous, beautiful artist felt as flawed and lonely as we do. Maybe that’s why the quote is consistently attributed to Kahlo. Or maybe it’s our inability to pay attention to a Google search longer than the first few results to figure it out. Maybe it’s both.

​One of the places that the alleged Frida Kahlo quote surfaced this week was in a video I watched introducing the Mothers of Preschoolers theme for the year, and I could tell it resonated with my friends too. I lead our local MOPS group this year. You know, the group with the ridiculous name that I never wanted to join because I feared they might try to make me decorate a cake and talk about my feelings? Well, they've never made me decorate a cake. But MOPS has been a lot of beautiful things to me: a place to take my kids when the days felt long, friends and strangers to cook my dinners on nights when I couldn’t because I had just had a baby (or had just lost one), conversation in a place where I had neither friend nor family. But most of all, it’s made me feel less alone.

Last week, for our first meeting, I had to choose an icebreaker. Friends, even that word causes me to cringe. I hate small talk; I would try to excuse myself to the bathroom whenever it’s icebreaker time if I could. I understand their purpose, but they are not my favorite. So I waded through an absurdly long list until I found one called, “Me Too” and immediately knew this was the one for us. The way it works: everyone writes down five things about themselves on a card. They could be anything (I have three kids, I like to cook, I’ve been married for ten years). Then everyone takes a turn reading her card out loud. When you hear a statement from someone else that is also true of you, you say “me too.”It goes like this:

“I drive a minivan.”Me too.“I miss reading fiction.”Me too.“I’m a Navy wife.”Me too.“I used to be a (fill in the blank), but now I’m not sure what’s next for me.”Me too.

No one’s problems got solved after we did this. But I felt a buzz in the room. Because maybe that’s the thing I love most about MOPS; maybe that’s the reason I stay. Because of all the times I’ve walked in, shoulders slumped, worn down from the inherently lonely, mundane parts of motherhood. I’ve sat down with my coffee and started listening and something brightened as I heard myself say, “me too.”

This week has been so heavy. Two more police shootings of black men, days and nights of sometimes violent protest in Charlotte, renewed fighting in Syria, continued vitriol on the campaign trail. And as a result, I see my circles, my acquaintances, my newsfeed fearful, angry and divided.

Where we live, it’s also been a week of rain. School was closed for two days because of the flooding and, despite the bickering and boredom, I was grateful to hold my babies close.

They learned this week that little friends of theirs had lost their mother just last month. What they don’t know is that it was suicide that took her. These precious children's beautiful mother, whom I didn’t really know, was so overcome— with her illness, her problems, her flaws—that the end seemed a gift. Finding out stole the breath from my lungs. While we must protect the innocence of our children and hers, I don’t think we can whitewash this. Did she have a place where she could hear another say, “Me too?” I have to believe her people did all they could to save her. But did she have the help she needed? Would she have accepted it? Would it have made a difference?

I certainly don’t know, and no part of me is trying to simplify what is never simple and can never be fixed from the outside in. But I know just enough about the darkness within me to know that it's a liar, and that total retreat is not an option.What would happen if we didn’t hide our brokenness? If we wore it, not as a badge of honor, but as a reminder of our humanity, of our connectedness to everyone else? As a Christian I believe that nothing separates me from anyone else, or from the depravity and death and darkness of this world but for the grace of God and His son, my savior, Jesus Christ, who can pull anyone, anyone, ANYONE out of the depths. If I really believe that, to my bones, I don’t need insulation or separation or protection from anyone else’s broken pieces; they can only cut me so deep. This knowledge should compel me into the dark places with compassion, with understanding, with an arm ready to wrap around hunched shoulders, the gentle words, “me too,” on my lips.

May we all seek out a place to rest, where we can bring our pain and flaws and mistakes and strangeness and lay it bare. Not just online--where it's so easy to posture, to project, to cover up and to hide--but in real life. Where sisters and brothers would look at us tenderly and say, “Me too,” and refuse to let us leave the way we came in. May we not believe the lie that these sisters and brothers need to look just like us, talk just like us, tell all the same stories and live just like us in order to be the people for us. And if you can't find that place, maybe you can make it yourself. Being vulnerable will not keep you safe, but it also won't allow you to stay lonely. And it might just make it safe for others to come out of hiding and say, "Me too."

I was walking on the beach, talking to my brother in law and sister in law, but I might as well have been on the Roman Road, talking to anyone who would listen.

One of my daughters is consistently a terrible ambassador for herself. We know her to be hilarious, brilliant, insightful and caring, but many people who encounter her—even family—might not gather that from their time with her. Her behavior betrays her. I hear myself saying this, in frustration, and dig my toes in the sand, immediately aware that I do it too.

Our new pastor had rattled the familiar verse off the weekend before, “What I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do” (Romans 7:15 NIV).

So, for our daughter, maybe it’s a tantrum when she’s feeling overwhelmed, flying off the handle because a bee flew by or speaking unkindly to someone she loves. I see this behavior met with frustration, anger, or even disgust from people we know and from strangers alike. Sometimes I meet it the same way. It’s frustrating to see someone I love misrepresent herself so.

And yet, I betray my heart on a regular basis. Inside, most of the time, I am loving, open and kind. I see the best in others and want to believe good things for them; I have ideas about telling and showing them this. I have plans to spend my time with intention, doing things I love for myself and people I love. But then, instead, I spend my time forgetting myself, complaining or judging, scrolling through Facebook while the precious minutes fly by at night and hitting snooze in the morning. Why do I do this?

I find Paul’s lament at once comforting and disheartening. “I do not understand what I do,” he says at the beginning of verse 15. Neither do I, which suggests that my self-betrayal is nothing new; it is the human condition. Though I am comforted to know I’m not alone, I’m frustrated, wondering what I can do about it.

So, here’s where I land. I can pray to be an ever-better representation of myself. I can work to understand what I want to do and why I choose what I do instead. I can take it all moment by moment and make deliberate choices about my words and time. I can apologize to others and forgive myself when I mess up (because none of this will keep me from getting it wrong forever). But maybe most importantly, I can look at my daughter and others in my life with understanding and grace, knowing we all get it wrong more often than we get it right. I can reject the notion that our character is distilled to only our actions; I can choose not to judge others as if I’m the only one who betrays myself; I can give them the benefit of believing that their behavior betrays their best selves too.

I ran a slow couple of miles on Monday, went to yoga and finished reading a book yesterday, and my aching muscles are waiting for enough ambient light this morning to run safely. I write to you predawn now, without feeling particularly inspired or insightful, but I showed up anyway. Here's hoping you find it within yourself to show up anyway for yourself and your people today.

Five years ago, when I turned thirty, I found myself at a crossroads of sorts. I struggled with my identity, then a mother of two daughters, three and one, working full time. I wrote about my newfound knowledge that aging is hard, even when you didn't think you were vain or insecure, and that confidence looked different and was harder to come by than I'd thought.

Today I find myself turning thirty-five with far less struggle. Everything is different: we've relocated to two different states since then and settled on the southern Virginia coast, where I never wanted to come and now never want to leave. I quit my job to stay home with the kids and added one more: a wild, affectionate, blond little boy. Our girls have grown, and with them our parenting challenges. My body and diet and lifestyle have all changed. And coinciding with, or maybe as a result of all these changes, I have learned volumes about myself.

Like most people, I have traits of which I'm not proud. It can be tempting to shame ourselves for these, or at least it can be for me. I'm terrible at keeping in touch, at returning phone calls. I like the idea of making plans but often feel like I want to stay home at the last minute. I screen phone calls, even from people I love most. I can be awkward in social settings; I love people but crave solitude. For years I have hung my head about all of these things.

Over the last five years, though, I've learned that these are not necessarily shortcomings, but character traits. My love of togetherness but need for solitude are not contradictory, they just are. They are part of what makes me me, and each part is equally good and right and neither part requires me to apologize. Knowing this about myself frees me. It enables me to commit to only the social engagements I really want to be a part of, reserving time at home with my family or alone. I no longer feel a need to explain a negative RSVP. The reasons why I choose not to commit to something, for myself or for our family, are my prerogative. My wellness--and my family's--is my responsibility alone and comes first and, for me, this includes ensuring my margin. Adopting this habit has garnered me puzzled looks and questions that sometimes feel more like accusations from others with different needs, but it has also largely removed resentfulness from my life. If I only say yes when I really mean it, then I am free to be fully present and engaged where I am. And, necessarily, I say no to lots of really good things. But when I leave white space in my life, sometimes it serves me and my family by allowing us downtime. It has also often freed me to help others I hadn't known I'd be helping. And, either way, it's good.

A photo I couldn't have shared at thirty

My acknowledgement and acceptance have moved into my physical self too. I have proof of my motherhood on my chest, my stomach, my legs and even my face. When I was thirty, this troubled me greatly. And of course there are days it still does. I still don't find aging to be for the faint of heart. But I earned every last one of these marks and changes. So when it's hot, I will wear shorts, and they won't touch my kneecaps either. When I go swimming, I'll probably wear a bikini, and it's not because I think I look perfect, but because it's most comfortable for me, and I don't need to be perfect to be comfortable. Mostly, I will wear makeup because it makes me more at ease, but if I don't, I don't need to worry about others seeing "the real me." I am okay the way I am today.

This whole "without apology" business might sound self-centered, and I can understand that. Conversely, though, I think knowing myself better and owning my decisions, strengths and flaws has helped me grow stronger at apologizing and recognizing when I'm wrong. It's still not my favorite thing, but whereas I used to struggle with any admittance of weakness, getting my strengths and weaknesses out in the open has made me less afraid of being exposed. It's okay to be wrong, to make mistakes and to say I'm sorry. I'm really not sure I knew these things before.

Knowing myself doesn't mean excusing poor behavior because that's "just the way I am." Sometimes it means forcing myself out. So, after long periods of busyness or togetherness, I now know I can be a bit of a hermit. And I'll let this go on for a little while--a recharging period--but there always comes a time when I need to venture back out, to avoid poisoning myself with self, to restore my focus back to others and balance. I understand my lack of responsiveness can be rude, regardless of whether that is my intent. So, even though I don't always want to, sometimes I have to pick up the phone. Not everyone is like me, and I can be myself and still meet them where they are.

​In yoga we practice noticing what is happening within our minds and bodies and allowing it to be, without judgement. This last part is so hard but so good. It has allowed me to come more fully into being myself, which has meant greater vulnerability in my relationships and an increased ability to understand my own emotions and reactions. I can question my feelings and weaknesses, but there is no point in shaming myself for them. I can learn and grow while still allowing them to be. If I understand my reactions better, I'm less likely to project my feelings on others and, I hope, better able to be present for them.

So, at thirty-five, I still have major questions that gnaw at me while I try to sleep, about where I'm going, whether I will ever decide to make my dreams come true, and whether it's even up to me anyway. This year I have felt like I lost my mojo, and after spending a long time shaming myself for that and thinking I could just discipline my way out of it, I'm realizing maybe there's something to the silence. Maybe I'm not doing something wrong; maybe the timing just isn't right. Maybe when it is I'll know; maybe I'll feel it. Maybe there is something here for me now; maybe it's just not what I thought I'd find. Instead of feeling ashamed that I have the voice but can't stand the stage, I'm learning maybe there can still be beauty and purpose singing in the darkness, into the wind, for the love of the song itself.

So sometimes I'll write, and other times I'll read. Sometimes I'll draw near to others, and other times I'll curl inward. Sometimes I'll sing, and sometimes I'll reflect silently, but always I'll work harder at listening. I will know myself but work to be more considerate of others, to be a more thoughtful friend. A more faithful follower. A better version of me.

Maybe, most of all, I've embraced what I may not have known five years ago: I cannot forgive, accept, shower grace upon and love others if I don't first practice it within myself. The second greatest commandment--to love my neighbor as myself--holds little weight if I don't love myself in the first place. I'm finding that treating myself with this sort of care enables me to better see others, to meet them with more compassion than I ever thought myself capable of before.

I thank God for change and growth, for forgiveness and grace, for self-awareness and burgeoning wisdom. I'm grateful for these beautiful, flawed, wonderful people in my house and community that I get to keep trying to love better. I'm grateful for the shiny and new and the tarnished and dusty, for a twelve-year-old love and eight, six and two-year-old children, for laughter and friendship and family, for the good and easy and the complicated and hard. But mostly I'm thankful for the ridiculous blessing of another turn around the sun, for a chance to keep trying.

One afternoon a couple weeks ago, while the kids rested and napped, I sat on my bed listening to a sudden summer storm. After a blinding flash of lightning, thunder clapped so loudly that the house shook. I heard a crash in the room above mine, then fast little feet pounding down the stairs. Emerie burst into my room and dove onto the bed.

"The storm seems to be right over us," I said as I held her, "but it won't stay long."

A few minutes later, the thunder rolled from a farther distance, and Emerie relaxed and headed back upstairs.

Later that week, we ventured to the Air and Space Center and watched an IMAX movie about the International Space Station. The astronauts talked about their impressions of life up there, and of the view of things below. One talked about the surprise of learning that, from space, you can see storms all over the world. We watched the footage of lightning flashing in clusters on different continents at once. It got me thinking.

On the way home, we talked about our favorite parts of the museum. I mentioned the movie as one of my favorites. Specifically, to my Emerie, who still tends to see the world through her very narrow lens, I focused on the part about the storms. About how, in the midst of the storm in our backyard, it would be easy to assume we were the only ones fearful of thunder and lightning, the only ones enduring the pouring rain. But a higher perspective reminds us that there are storms all over, and that those around us are suffering too.

Photo credit: John Hallis

I think about it now, looking out over the Atlantic through puffy eyes. Yesterday, while at a virtual stranger's house, our dog of the last ten years, Mosotos, passed away. He was really my dog, my companion, my first baby, my buddy. He lived in every home of our marriage, was there when we brought home every baby. He was there for lost jobs and babies, for two major moves. He waited outside the bathroom for me, stood at my feet and cleaned up after me when I cooked, followed me around and never went to bed until I did. He was faithful and patient and tolerant. And I loved him. And the degree to which this loss has undone me has knocked me sideways.

Throughout the day, distracted by the life in front of me, I would forget what had happened, then the tears would prick my eyes as it all came rushing back. Is there a name for that? For the crushing, recurring shock that comes with loss, as you experience it over and over, until your heart adjusts to your new normal?

I gazed into the waves, thinking about what it would be like to go home without him there. About the strangeness of not being able to say goodbye, even as I am grateful for the peace with which he died and the trauma the kids and I didn't have to endure.

A friend recently sent me some good words from a book on emotional intelligence, with a compliment that it reminded her of me. I don't often let any emotion go unquestioned. So yesterday, it looked like this: "I'm exceedingly sad. Why am I so sad?" And after a couple iterations of this, I shut it down. I'm sad because I lost my beloved dog. There doesn't need to be a greater reason. Maybe every emotion doesn't need to be explored, maybe, sometimes, they just need to be felt. The investigation shouldn't trump the actual experience. It's enough to just be sad. There doesn't have to be anything greater to learn from it. Maybe this is simple, but it's felt like a challenge to me.

From my spot on the beach this week with so much of our extended family, where so much love and joy and goodness also exists, I have seen lightning in the distance that reminds me the storms are not only over my head. I've sat on the deck, burdened for my loss and parenting difficulty and uncertainty in other areas, worried for a friend in transition, heavy-hearted for another with unanswered medical concerns, for a loved one hoping for healing. I'm reminded of the storms seen from space--how they are more plentiful, but also smaller and less scary-- from farther away. I'm breathing salt in and letting it run down my face, aware that the pain is real but that it won't last forever and that it's also not all there is.

​I stood on the train in Paris, clutching the metal bar as we slowed to a stop. “Mind the gap between the train and the platform,” the recording said, and when we were safely above ground, something about those words struck me enough to make me jot them down.

Yesterday, while looking for something else, I found them again. Mind the gap.

Our family lives in a gap this summer. Our house is torn apart, in the midst of a major renovation. It’s eustress, like I learned about in my Intro to Psychology class in college—a positive stressor—but a stressor nonetheless. We are reunited after a month apart and thankful every night to sleep in our own beds, but the rest of our main level is a construction site—filthy, unfinished, unsafe. In our un-air-conditioned sunroom, where it has been in the 90s all week, I cook our meals in a microwave, toaster oven and on a hot plate. We are hot. The kids are getting on each other’s nerves. I am never alone and running out of diversions, even as loads of work that I cannot do beckons from inside the house, since I can’t safely contain Deacon. I find myself wishing the gap between under construction and completion away, but of course that would mean wishing three weeks of my children’s summer away, and it will be over soon enough on its own.

Uncomfortably, I'm wading through some personal uncertainty as well, in a gap of not knowing. Not knowing isn’t my strength.

I find my sense of self in a gap too, this whole year. Of what I once did and what I do now, who I used to be and who I will someday be. So whoever I am now, in this season, shifts uncomfortably in the gap. I am unmoored; I can’t find my voice, can’t find my passion, can’t find my discipline. And if I’m not careful, I might wish away these questions, this uncertainty, this discomfort, yes, but along with it I would miss the peculiar beauty of these days. The preciousness of the faith inherent in not knowing. The gratitude that living in the moment necessitates. The simple pleasures of just being here, right now, of being aware that nothing else has been promised to us anyway.

I’m shifting my focus this week to minding the gap between: the way it is and the way it may someday be, what I am and what I want to become, what I do today and what I may accomplish someday. And maybe there are changes to make or work that should be done; maybe there is motivation I lack or hustle I haven’t found, but I rest in the knowledge that there can be time for all of that. It’s not always time for looking ahead or behind, sometimes it’s enough to just acknowledge and be present in the in between.

On the same day he took me for a loud, fast ride around the neighborhood in the gold, ‘69 Mustang both he and his son drove to high school, the Mustang he later carefully loaded on a trailer bought for just that purpose, he looked at me tearfully and said, “Thank you for carrying me this last year.”

A hundred meals flashed in my memory: some packed for two, with care and attention to detail, others for one, before, and then even more frequently after she was gone, and still others shared around our chaotic and banged-up kitchen table. And of them all, I think, the latter mattered the most.

That table wasn’t fancy. Extendable and bought for a fraction of its value from the “As-Is” section of Ikea; when we bought it we had thought it a steal. But ten years of scratches and spills, three kids with grubby hands and math homework later, and it had seen many better days.

And the meals, though homemade with love, fell far short of gourmet: turkey for Thanksgiving and ham at Christmas, yes, but mostly soups in the winter: boeuf Bourguignon, butternut squash bisque and pasta e fagioli, and simple dishes the rest of the year: ratatouille, tacos, Bolognese and baked chicken.

“Thank you for carrying me,” said the man who had jump-started my car when it had died on a winter night, filled with children after a visit to a friend’s house, who took out my trash and changed my flat tire while my husband was away, who often met my daughters at the bus stop while my son napped and chatted with them all the way home, who delighted in watching my son grow and always greeted him with a smile and a hug.

I’m still mulling over all that our friendship with him has taught me. I’m still deciding what it means.

There is a gate in the fence that separates our yard from the one that used to be his. We put it there with hope that we would use it for years to come, not wanting to believe that maybe we wouldn’t get the chance. If pressed to consider the possibility of different neighbors, he joked, “Maybe we could write a provision into the contract,” but more seriously, “You could always lock it.”

So before he drove across the country, his Mustang trailing behind, while he stayed in our guest room, the one tucked into the eaves and overlooking the yard and garden next door that had not two days before been his, I heard my daughter in the back yard calling to someone I couldn’t see: “Sure, come on over!” I could almost taste the bittersweetness on my tongue as I saw the beautiful blonde child walk through the gate, from her new yard into ours. Can a gate be a legacy? A legacy that lets in a little girl with flip flops and a shy smile, who has a little sister and brother and parents who invite my husband to share a meal with them while I’m away?

I know what we gave him, I think, because he would thank us for it all the time. But I’m still coming to terms with what he gave us, along with the bags of empty food containers no longer waiting to be refilled. Sometimes it seemed that, to him, maybe I was a bit of every woman: mother, sister, wife, daughter, friend. But I think I’ll always remember him as the one who reminded me that I can live and love with intention and my days can impact others right here, over the fence-- right now-- not only in a someday down the road when my children are grown and not only back then, when my days looked different. Now. Around my banged-up kitchen table, with my tired eyes and bickering children, eating my ordinary food.

We'll miss saying, "Come on in," and a half-hearted, "excuse the mess," even as we get to know the warm people who have bought his home but could never take his place.

It’s not clear to me who did the carrying, but that gate in the back yard will always feel like hope and love. It brings us comfort to know it will continue enabling us to say, "Sure, come on over," even now that he's gone.

About Me

Christina | Virginia BeachPsuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom finds herself home with the kids and transplanted twice in two years to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.